


stars in your eyes

by linabauer



Series: we are the answer to everything we need, we are the beauty in our hopes and dreams [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: A lot of things will be happening in the 3rd work, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, But also somewhat canon compliant?, Can you see the angst and self doubt in here, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Feyre somehow survived so good for her, Gen, Lucien Vanserra-centric, Lucien needs a break from life, M/M, Rhysand needs some milk, She really should have stayed home, Tamlin The Tool, Tamlin tries but fails, Things look messy now but it will be cleared up in the future, calm down, did i care, did i have work to do, did i just write this entire thing in 3 days, had to write this or i wouldnt be productive, no not really actually wait i do but priorities am i right, obviously, of course I did, really minor though, so toxic tsk, spoiler - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:08:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26372470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linabauer/pseuds/linabauer
Summary: Or: Lucien has had a shitty life, way before Amarantha came barging in with her anti-human propagandaDisclaimer: AU in which Feyre is not Rhysand's mate. Pairings shall be revealed later on (Sorry Feysand shippers, but we have way too little non-Feysand ship stories). The timeline and details are also not very canon compliant (the beginning and backstories) but is mostly compliant.
Relationships: It's a surprise, but it isnt following canon, most of it anyways - Relationship
Series: we are the answer to everything we need, we are the beauty in our hopes and dreams [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1916527
Kudos: 15





	1. Prologue

Lucien blinks rapidly at a blurry figure as he awakens.

“Oh good, you’re finally up. I would tell you to clear the mess but, you’re currently very, incapacitated, let’s say,” the cruel, dark voice says.

Lucien blinks again as he awakens.

Then the pain, dulled on its edges and striking. His eye. Oh gods, his eye.

“I suppose that will take some getting used to, wouldn’t it?”

Lucien would have snarled, but his senses were going into an overdrive.

The other, undoubtedly male, sighs.

A press of fingers to his cheek and Lucien flinches away, automatically calling his flames to his hands but-

“Oh gods,” he breathes out, staring down at his chains, lifting a shoulder to his eye to wipe away the blood, tender flesh screaming in protest.

And there stood in all his bastard glory, High Lord of the Night Court, winking devilishly.


	2. Shining, Glowing, welcome to your ruining

Lucien has always been a man of his word. He dealt in manipulation and secrets and things never to be told, he was all trickery and cunning. Beron may not have had a hand in raising him until he proved to be a worthy heir, but he did what he did best, learn and adapt.

And so he did. He did it through the years of neglect, did it when he was compared to his perfect, competitive brothers by blood and not by actions. Lucien protected his mother who had become so weak, so different from what he had heard from a few older servants. Lucien had held his own against his own father, the High Lord of Autumn. His fire was one to match Beron’s, powerful and fiery. But he had been a scholar at heart, so he had travelled. Knowledge, after all, was power. He was considered spoilt, he supposed. He had seen first hand the poverty of lesser fae, he had seen their suffering and torment. He had seen the cruelty of survival no one knew happened even in the inner Courts.

Lucien had seen many things. The best, the worst, the happiest, the more sorrowful.

He was a terrible person, he knew. All High Fae were, terrible and wicked and cruel in their immortality. But he would never break his word, his vows, his loyalty would remain to those who gained it.

Foxes were nothing but sly and cunning, wily and agile, not only in mind but in body. But when it came to protecting their own, they were ferocious.

The entire Autumn Court, the Vanserra family, all foxes clambering to the top. Two-faced people who only cared for survival, but did not show it.

Lucien had always felt like an outsider in Autumn.

Beron never acknowledged him, of course. Why would he, when he had so many more wonderful sons?

His mother, wasting away day by day as she stared out of the window, always towards the east as she watched the sun rise. She had always loved the mornings, the daylight.

His brothers, Eris, Kieran, Aiden, Jeremiah, Dacian and Caliban. Eris, sadistic, cold hearted, the model heir of autumn. Kieran, lovely, deadly, he was the war general of autumn court. Aiden, flashy and flirtatious, he knew how to manoeuvre politics extremely well. Jeremiah, the talented healer and scribe, he would draft any legal documents, heal those who paid high prices for his services. Dacian, fiery, passionate, he was the spokesperson of autumn. Lastly, Caliban, wise, intelligent, he was literally a walking library with knowledge to rival those of Day Court librarians.

So yes, compared to his brothers, Lucien was more of a wanderer, an outsider, like he was peering into a window and watching more than living.

As such, he was allowed more free reign, although less privileges. He interacted with the lesser faeries, the poor, the sick, the young, the old.

His life was so dull, so plain.

And then Jesminda came along, and his life changed.

He felt more than saw the bond they had. It was so real, it felt so real. It was like someone had pushed it into place, willed it into existence, because there was that “oh, its you I’ve been searching for” moment that was so nonsensical but perfect.

Then, of course, came the panic that Beron would disown him for daring, for having the sheer audacity, to have a lesser fae as a mate.

 _Mate_.

Jesminda had been everything. Mate did not properly encapsulate what they had been to each other. Jesminda had made him wonder, made him think, made him feel. Jesminda had took his dulled world and splashed it in colour, making the red of the leaves everywhere so bright it was blinding.

Lucien ignored the small nagging part of his mind that something was wrong.

Of course, with luck like Lucien’s, nothing good lasted.

_A flower burning, falling to the ground like ashes. A smile laced with poison. A drink that made his head pound and head scream in agony as it burned through him. Tinkling of glasses as they poured wine that was so thick it felt like blood on him as they laughed and danced and laughed as they dumped him into a tank of ice cold water to test his fire and flames. “Lucien, so small, so weak, how easily we can extinguish your flame,” Kieran would whisper._

Lucien’s life had always been wild, for a lack of better word. Absolutely insane. So dull it was like a very boring novel. Then so tragic it felt like some stupid play in some book with terrible writing.

Lucien, of course, still ached for Jesminda. A part of him had died with her, died as her blood splattered the walls and painted Eris’s face and drenched him as he sobbed and crawled forward against the chains and begged, and whored himself, and threw away any remaining shred of dignity in front of his apathetic father who merely sneered and ordered a servant to push him away by his forehead with a foot from him.

Beron had taken his childhood. His brothers had taken away his safety. Mother had taken away his selfishness. Jesminda had taken his innocence and high mighty act.

Lucien didn’t even know he had more to give until he dragged himself to Spring and collapsed in front of the High Lord in an undignified manner.

And there, Lucien had rebuilt, had offered his services and became an emissary, a bridge between strained relations. Lucien had offered, in a shiny gift box wrapped with a fucking golden bow, his life to Tamlin. And he had taken it, this worthless, pathetic, second-rate life.

He put his skills to use, charmed the ever loving hell out of every fucking court. He had slept with high ranking officials of inner circles of courts, he had connected Spring to every seasonal court and even day and dawn (Night was and would always be a taboo for Spring, he had learnt early on. It was the first time Lucien had experienced Tamlin’s rage and nearly got slashed into bloody ribbons. Tamlin, of course, had apologised after. He always did, no matter to who he had offended.). Lucien had single handedly built a network of spies and connections to most courts, even Autumn. (Lucien pretended it did not hurt when Beron did not acknowledge his existence, when Dacian had thrown away the glove he had been wearing after they were forced to shake hands, but had begrudgingly agreed to his terms of a treaty as emissary of Spring).

He had relative peace for a century or two. He had learnt to lock away his memories in the deepest chambers of his mind, had learnt how to control his emotions and feelings. He had even carried out rituals and carved runes on himself to have basic warding against any mental attacks. The books on mind magic were scarce in Seasonal courts, something Lucien vowed to change once he got access to Day’s libraries.

When his life was finally looking better, when he finally had a purpose again, Hybern came, and his life fell apart.


	3. Child of Night, dancing in fire

And so here Lucien was, kneeling and trying his best not to shiver against the cold, hard floor. Blood kept on marring his vision. His eye, gods, his eye.

Worst of all, the High Lord of Night was here, and he was at his mercy.

Lucien had the worst bloody luck ever. He cursed the stars he was born under.

Lucien wanted to scream. To struggle against the chains. To snarl and slash at the fucking prick who dared, dared stand there and play Amarantha’s bedmate when so many were suffering, when he was suffering, when the very people he had sworn to protect were dying. When children were being sold to Hybern, when women were being defiled and used, when men were being sent as collateral damage.

“I know that look, save it fire boy,” the prick, Rhysand, smirks.

“Make me, Child of Night,” he hissed back, smarting at the word boy. He was no child, how dare he-

But he was, compared to Rhysand. He had 200 or so years on him. He was infinitely more cruel, more callous, more wise than he could ever hope to be. He had fought in a war only Beron had fought in, when Eris was but 100 and Kieran still 50.

He had fought in the war his mother had fought in, when she still had her warrior’s spirit. Hestia Vanserra neé Lysander, fated for Beron Vanserra.

How powerful they were, the oldest servants whispered. How Beron had smothered her flame and she had given everything to her sons.

Lucien snorted, thinking back on that. Yeah, and she definitely gave him her angst and misfortune.

“I could send you back to Amarantha, tell her that you refuse to break, that your will will not bend, let her slowly, intimately, tear you apart, show the world that you may be fire hiding in rose bushes, but she can put out your flame easily,” Rhysand muses, a flash of something like rage or some memory of his invoking emotion in those dark, shadowy eyes.

“For you to watch me be toyed with and forced into submission,” Lucien dully stated as he wipes away all the blood flowing down his entire face and body as he opens a few wounds that had half healed.

“More like watch Beron pretend that his son isn’t dying, that this isn’t a warning to Autumn that fire is no match in such darkness and despair,” Rhysand calmly shoots back as he watches in slight amusement.

“And I suppose you take lessons from her? Is it before or during your lovely make-out sessions? Does she make you beg, Little Lord, when you spread your legs for her to-“

A backhand so quick, so much quicker than Tamlin or Beron could ever achieve, made Lucien gasp for air, even as he laughed and settled himself off his knees to sit on the ground.

“You’re fast, much quicker than usual High Lords even, and Tamlin is a force of nature,” Lucien notes.

“Does Tamlin dear slap you often? With your insolence, I can’t see how. Perhaps Beron was wrong, after all. He let you kindle in the background, let your fire grow. And he will look back and regret the day he decided to leave you behind in the shadows,” Rhysand muses, back to his ice-cold prince look.

“My father,” Lucien drawls, “Sees nothing beyond what political power he could gain from people. He makes a successful High Lord, but never a great one. His people hate him but respect him. And that is the only thing that matters to him.”

“Look at you, Little Fox, lost from his den. You were always only a fox in the Court of thorns and roses, hiding from your den members,” Rhysand croons, and pets his head softly, so gently that Lucien had saw red and lunged at him with his bare hands.

And to his surprise, managed to clip him on the neck. A scratch, small, but drawing blood nonetheless.

Rhysand blinks.

“Oh you’ll pay for that, my little fox,” he breathes out.

Lucien snarls and throws his entire will into breaking the chains, into willing his magic, his fire into existence, he was the fire, it was part of him, how dare they take it away.

The symbols flare and Rhysand stops seething to look at him curiously. Lucien scowls again and he pours his soul into fighting the invisible bonds that tie down his magic, that suppress his nature, that are killing him slowly, taking off years of his life, he and his magic were one, he would not let this scare him, would not let this break him.

The symbols flare again.

“I suggest,” Rhysand quietly says, looking contemplative,” You stop struggling now.”

And with a final snarl, Lucien wills his fire into existence and sends a small lick of flame to singe the hem of his trousers.

Rhysand looks down at the part, and looks up at Lucien. Lucien is a panting, shivering mess, but there’s a spark of victory as he takes in the surprise in his violet eyes (pretentious arse, who has violet eyes?).

“Don’t let Amarantha see that. I’ll see what I can do to send you back to Spring. Work on your mind shields, your runes are fascinating but they don’t do anything against daemati like me and Hybern.”

Rhysand quietly leaves, and Lucien slumps to the ground


	4. Lord of Spring, come find me

Lucien does not look at the audience as he is dragged out for trial again, in front of Amarantha.

“In light of recent events,” Amarantha begins, and the entire audience present hushes, chamber falling to a deathly silence,” I have decided, as your merciful queen, to spare Autumn’s High Lord’s spawn. His insolence has been punished, and he will no longer be so uncouth, will you, darling?” Amarantha commands more than asks, the way she says darling making Lucien’s stomach lurch.

Say it, a tiny voice in his head whispers, dark and stormy.

Say it! It repeats more harshly against his mental barriers as the silence drags on.

“Yes, my Queen,” Lucien distantly hears himself speak, bowing in reverence and falling to his knees.

Amarantha smiled, a smile of spite and pure delight.

Lucien distantly notes that Jurian’s eye was whirling rapidly, blinking at him.

Jurian, who had seduced Clythia and then destroyed her. If his predictions were right, Amarantha was looking to avenge her sister.

Sister, that was who they were to each other. A bond Lucien never felt with his brothers.

In some ways, he pitied Amarantha. But who she had become, Lucien could not excuse.

Lucien had always been loyal to a fault. Cunning, mischievous, with undying fidelity to those he pledged it to.

He had pledged it to Tamlin, and he would uphold that by begging, by pretending to be Amarantha’s new toy even if it broke him.

“Come kiss my feet, ask for forgiveness from your Queen. Is this not merciful? Is this not better, to know that you are a part of a greater purpose? There is an old Hybern myth. Once upon a time, in a kingdom long since burnt to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom very much.”

Lucien sees a flare of sudden interest in his mother, who he had not dared to look at until now.

Lucien moves towards Amarantha’s throne and prostrates himself in front of her, kisses her feet and hem of dress.

Survival, Lucien reminds himself. His entire life had been a game of survival, and this was one of the players. He would do whatever it takes to repay Tamlin for his kindness, for Jesminda who had opened his eyes and made him better.

“Her name is lost to the centuries, but most recounts say that she was called Mala Fire-Bringer, Heir of Fire. Faerie Queen of the West, such power she had. So much power she gave up to banish the ancient evil growing. And such eyes, the fairest eyes from legends old, of brightest blue, ringed with gold.”

Fire. Lucien was fire, he was rage, he was burning. He was the bringer of destruction, he did nothing but poison and burn-

“Her power brought an ancient creature of destruction, hiding in fae skin, to her knees. Her flame encircled an entire city, her flame turned an entire dam of water to turn to mist. She was the harbinger of light. She was my ancestor, of course. All High Fae and old Fae have intermingled family lines, but Clythia was the direct heir and descendent to the line of Light and Fire.”

In the corner of his eye, Beron stiffened. Lucien nearly laughed. He knew, they all knew, the implications of this story, that they, the Vanserras, were closely related to Amarantha, that they were descendants of such a powerful faerie.

“We are children of such glory, we are all High Fae and Old Fae. As such, I shall grant a boon. Lucien Vanserra shall be allowed to return to Spring Court where my beloved resides. You will have the entire Court come to a ball that shall be held in a fortnight’s time. Failure to do so shall result in less mercy to the disrespect you showed to me during peace negotiations of all things. Do you understand, child?” Amarantha drawls.

“Yes my Queen,” Lucien breathes out.

Amarantha nods once, a dismissal.

“Pet, take him,” she nods to Rhysand and Rhysand smirks wickedly as he hauls Lucien up to his feet, taking the chains from the guards.

“Come on, don’t want to keep Tam-Tam waiting do we?”

-

Lucien could do nothing but let Rhysand winnow him in. All the fight he had felt had left him the moment Amarantha had let this devil take him.

“Your eye,” Rhysand finally said as they walked from neutral territory into Spring border.

“It will heal. Strengthen your barriers, you’re lucky Amarantha isn’t as proficient in mind magic as I am. Stay with your High Lord, foxfire.”

Lucien stills.

“Oh you did not just call me a fungi,” he breathes.

Rhysand blinks, something he had been doing very often lately in the presence of Lucien.

“My apologies for your delicate sensibilities, little flame, I was trying to break you out of your angst and it worked, didn’t it?”

Lucien debates if its worth socking him in the jaw.

“As I was saying,” Rhysand continues, dragging him along now, “Call in favours with solar courts. Get Tamlin to stop sitting on his arse on some golden throne and do something about that sexual tension between him and Amarantha. See a healer, don’t die this early into the game will you, my fox?”

“Seems like you’re a little jealous of Tamlin,” Lucien says, probing carefully.

A flash of hatred and resentment shines through those eyes.

“My Queen knows what is best for her, and I shall serve her as she deems fit,” Rhysand says, sounding cold and emotionless again.

So, this was personal.

Something was off, and he hated it. Hated the 6th sense tingling, telling him he did not have all the information present.

Rhysand had never shown anything but amusement and pity for Tamlin. The only time he had seen the rage in those violet irises was in a memory of the day his family had been assassinated, assassinated by the very lord’s father he now served. Even then, the hate and resentment was directed at Tamlin’s inability to act, because Tamlin was not the one who struck. Rhysand had always hated the fact that Tamlin would not “stop sitting on his arse”, not Tamlin himself.

Why this hatred? Why these emotions?

He needed more intel. He would be careful. Perhaps this was some elaborate plan for revenge that was looking down sided due to Amarantha’s infatuation for Tamlin. Perhaps this was just Rhysand finally letting out his dark side in a place where shadows could thrive. Or maybe, just maybe, he was another looking to just survive.

Lucien had never felt his world become so grey and disorganised before as he finally stood at the gates of Spring Manor and saw the wreckage.


	5. Queen of Despair, plucking strings from the air

“Tamlin outdid himself with modern art this time,” Rhysand whistles as the guards turn their weapons to him.

“Shut your mouth Rhysand, for the good of us all,” Lucien hisses back, straightening himself.

He didn’t want to deal with Tamlin and Rhysand going at each other today. He wanted a shower, he wanted a nap, he wanted to go home.

Right on time, Tamlin came barrelling through the doors.

“Where is he,” he growls, feral and sees Rhysand, holding up Lucien.

His features turn more creature like as he begins mid shift, about to horribly maim Rhysand-

Lucien snarls at him.

“Not now, Tamlin. Rhysand, its been good to see you’re still a prick. Tamlin, calm yourself, I’m okay.”

Rhysand gives him an unfathomable look and lets him go, unlocking the chains with a snap of his fingers as they disappear to god knows where.

Tamlin seems at war with himself before he shifts back into his fae form.

“Your eye,” he says.

“It’s fine. I’m okay,” Lucien replies.

“If you did anything to Lucien-“ Tamlin growls towards Rhysand, who looked infinitely bored.

“I did not do anything you accuse me of, Tam-Tam. Why don’t you ask Little Lucien?” Rhysand asks, staring intently at Lucien.

“Get out,” Tamlin whispers, and even the flowers around seemed to halt.

“Tamlin, don’t,” Lucien says.

“Yes Tamlin, listen to darling Lucien, he’s got a message for you, doesn’t he?”

“You do not get to enter my land and threaten me, threaten one of my court-“

Some pathetic, weak part of Lucien felt honoured to have a High Lord acknowledge his existence, to be willing to protect him, an inner member of his court.

The other, more rational one knew there would be a fight brewing. And it would not do for Amarantha to be pissed off by her two new toys before any negotiations again.

To think what she would do to the fae, to the ones held in camps-

“Tamlin, Tamlin please, its not worth it,” Lucien pleads, remembering to stay a 5m radius away from him as he calmed down and seemed to wrestle with his inner beast.

The political mess fighting would get them in would be terrifying, please, oh gods.

Tamlin took a deep inhale and calmed down.

“You touch a member of my court again and I will slaughter you, Rhysand,” Tamlin growls and grabs Lucien by the arm before whirling around and helping him in, leaving Rhysand staring after them in contemplative silence so different from the aggression Tamlin was displaying earlier on, and the cruelty Under the Mountain.

Lucien wonders distantly if they fought because Rhysand gets so tired of being chained down to the ground daily that he would jump at any chance of leaving Amarantha’s bedroom.

-

His mask was a fox.

He was a fox, lethal.

He held by 10 rules, drilled into him by tutors. Rules of survival, he called them.

“One, read your environment and the players well,” he whispers to himself as he walks down the hallways towards Tamlin and the entourage of Spring.

“Two, do not act until necessary,” he recites quietly, too quiet for even High Fae to hear.

“Three, know your players and the weapons,” he says as they winnow to Amarantha’s lair.

“Four, do not compromise yourself,” he chants as they walk down the dim hallway into the chamber.

“Five, stay in the shadows, do not garner attention.” Lucien nearly flinches as one of the things in the walls come too close to him for comfort.

“Six, do not be afraid, you are never alone.” Little Lucien, come to play with the wolves and lions.

“Seven, never give up control,” bow, darling, bow.

“Eight, persuasion comes hand in hand with charm and skill,” Lucien curls his hands into fists and wills a small lick of flame into existence as the guards tense.

“Nine, you are forged in fire, melded in ice and coated with steel,” Lucien repeats in his mind, saying it out loud too risky now that they were nearing the heart of the Mountain.

“Ten, never trust a survivor until you know what they did to survive.”

Lucien stops at the entrance and falls back to guard his lord.

He has always been a survivor, a servant, and he will serve well with honour.

-

The fox was out-witted by the dragon. Well done, fire-breather. Well done, Lucien thinks bitterly as the beast in Tamlin roars, as he distantly notes the fear the servants are drowning in, as he himself lets Tamlin shred his study to pieces again and hides in his room for fear of his life.


	6. Golden Eye, terrible lies

Lucien gets a new eye. Golden, like the honey he pours down politicians’ throats. Gold, for the wealth of knowledge he had. Gold, for a crown, for a king.

Gold for victory. Gold for success. Gold for light. Gold, for him.

Lucien doesn’t know what to say to Tamlin for a week after that.

Tamlin doesn’t comment when he finds Lucien’s gift of ever-lasting incense of his favourite scent of lilac.

-

Andras was sent out as a tribute.

He does not come back.

The nobility rejoice in hushed whispers as the servants and sentries mourn.

Lucien leaves to hunt for the rest of the day.

He has no place here where he would belong

-

Lucien saw the young girl.

A girl. A girl, barely on the cusp of adulthood, whose eyes showed such burdens, whose body showed sorrows unspoken of.

She was but a child. And she was fated to save them all.

Perhaps it was his pity,sympathy for those who needed his help. Perhaps it was the fire he could sense in her when she challenged him and everyone else. Perhaps it was a sense of kinship with two broken souls who had seen too much at such ages.

Lucien teases her and dances with her to keep her alive. Feyre doesn’t know it, trades insults with him and talks to him like he was normal, like he belonged. Like they had found each other in the shadows.

Lucien only backs down when he sees how happy Feyre is with Tamlin, when Tamlin was seconds away from ripping his throat out with jealousy.

Lucien doesn’t bother telling Tamlin that he didn’t swing that way.

Lucien submits, Lucien serves, Lucien helps Feyre to doom Amarantha while trying to prevent her from doing anything too life-threatening.

It’s such a pity that Tamlin forces him to stay back. Lucien watches Feyre as she stumbles her way through a new environment just like he did, found love like he didn’t.

-

When Feyre is taken, when Feyre appeared in the middle of the godsdamned chamber, Lucien wanted to scream at her. Or maybe cry with her. Or maybe both.

Don’t, Lucien wanted to scream.

And suddenly he felt like Jesminda’s head was on the floor again. He was back to that naive child-like mentality. He was feeling again, he could breathe.

Lucien bit his lip and waited in the dark. He was always the best at that, hiding in the shadows before striking.

-

Lucien struck.

He nearly gagged as he saw Feyre’s wound.

He had a few minutes to heal her with what little magic he managed to set aside before the nullifying hum of Amarantha’s safe guards set in.

“Feyre?”   
“Lucien?” Feyre asks out, and gods, he had never heard someone sounding so alone and sad before.

(Its a lie. “My Queen knows what is best for her”)

“By the Cauldron, are you all right?” Lucien breathes out as he sees Feyre, struggling to stand, Feyre, struggling to survive.

“My face-“

And suddenly he was angry.

“Have you lost your mind? What are you doing here?”

“I went back to the manor … Alis told me … told me about the curse, and I couldn’t let Amarantha—”

Fuck you Alis, honestly.

The poor girl had a one in a million chance of living, and now the fraction had decreased exponentially.

Love, Lucien knew, was a poison.

Feyre was dying on the inside, and Lucien could do nothing but watch her as she fell prey to a curse which would not have concerned her had she not been so stupidly noble, so brave and loving.

“You shouldn’t have come, Feyre,” he said sharply. “You weren’t meant to be here. Don’t you understand what he sacrificed in getting you out? How could you be so foolish?”

“Well, I’m here now!” Lucien nearly winces as Feyre yells.

“I’m here, and there’s nothing that can be done about it, so don’t bother telling me about my weak human flesh and my stupidity! I know all that, and I …” I wanted to cover my face in my hands, but it hurt too much. “I just … I had to tell him that I love him. To see if it wasn’t too late.”

Lucien pities Feyre even more. She had been shown the smallest amount of care and concern by a High Lord, and she’s already attached. Didn’t she know fairy tales never ended well in real life?

But Lucien just sits down.

“So you know everything, then.”

Feyre nods, looking slightly less energised.

Lucien realises the colossal pain she must be in. Fae and humans were different, after all. Sometimes Lucien forgot that.

“Well, at least we don’t have to lie to you anymore. Let’s clean you up a bit.” Lucien says instead.

Lucien heals Feyre, warns her and disappears before anyone notices anything was amiss.

Lucien knew not to wish her luck to bring her hopes up. Not dying would be her best shot.

-

Of course Lucien’s Cauldron damned luck would strike again.

Lucien notes the distant, fuzzy panic as he is dragged forth.

Gods-damned. Cauldron hated.

Lucien struggles as he is forced to his knees again.

_Do you understand, child?_

And then Rhysand enters his mind.

His weak, pathetic protections shatter the moment he touches them, brushes them away.

Build up your strength, he said. He didn’t bloody well have the time, did he?

They just went round and round in circles. Feyre doing something heroic, good and pure, with Lucien as collateral.

Again.

Lucien clears his mind, shoves his memories into the deep recesses of his mind as the mental him snarls at Rhysand’s presence.

Rhysand, surprisingly, halts.

“I will hold your mind, fox boy. You will struggle for show. You do not yield unless I tell you to, do you understand, little fox?”

Lucien considers. He knows he is sweating.

Lucien struggles a bit more as he shoots a glance to Tamlin. Tamlin, with his back straight. Tamlin, with his eyes unseeing. Tamlin, who had taken him in, gave him a purpose. Tamlin, whose lover was now just a surviving child in a war she was never meant to be in.

In some ways, Feyre was the ultimate child soldier. The sacrifice. The pawn that was never meant to be placed on the board.

Lucien, as quick as an asp, lashes out at that presence and Rhysand recoils slightly, as if not expecting it.

He sees Rhysand’s physical form smiling faintly.

Good, let that be a challenge, and a warning.

“I thought you would have learned your lesson, Lucien. Though this time your silence will damn you as much as your tongue.” 

Lucien knows, knows that his life was worth nothing without Tamlin.

_Flashes. Wood splintering, plates cracking, Feyre and Tamlin staring at each other so intently that Lucien felt sickened to watch._

_Fire burning those farm houses down. Debts to be repaid, blood on his hands._

Lucien remembers the sentries sent out. Andras, who had given up his life for the child soldier.

For the artist in a huntress’s body.

For the lover who tamed the beast.

“Her name?” Amarantha commands.

“I don’t suppose your handsome brothers know, Lucien.”

Brothers. Brothers who would sell him out in a heartbeat. Who would watch as he was tortured and shamed and humiliated and crushed.

“If we did, Lady, we would be the first to tell you.”

Lucien repressed a growl.

Rhysand tightens his claws on Lucien’s mind.

Somehow, somehow that slippery piece of filth had captured him in a net and-

Rhysand squeezed.

Lucien bit down on his tongue.

“Little Lucien, you will yield,” Rhysand purrs.

“Cauldron damn you and your circle,” Lucien hisses back. The teasing talons pause for a second.

Oh, he’d hit a nerve.

Rhysand snarls and tightens, and squeezes until claws are sunk deep into him and-

Lucien lets out a small groan.

By the Cauldron. Feyre was not going to take this well. Tamlin was going to murder him if Rhysand didn’t already rip him apart and tear him into pieces from the inside-

“Feyre! My name is Feyre!”

Oh Feyre, naive, wonderful Feyre. Feyre who loved fiercely and bountifully.

She should have let him die.

Now he would watch her die.

Love, Lucien distantly thinks as he slumps to the ground, muscles giving out, was such a bitch.


	7. Huntress, free, waiting for me

Lucien dragged himself to see Feyre’s first trial.

Stupid, brave, wonderful Feyre, who was his sister more than his brothers were to him.

He would not fail. He would not fail Feyre, would not fail Tamlin, would not fail his vow to protect the lesser fae who were suffering and the High Fae would let them suffer for all they cared.

So when Feyre begun, Lucien was on the edge of his seat.

“So, who do you think will win?” A faerie to his right breathlessly exclaims.

Lucien gives the faerie his best Beron inspired sneer before turning back to Feyre.

The Wyrm, where was it where was it-

There. And Feyre wouldn’t notice on time, wouldn’t see it-

“To your left!” Lucien screams, screams before he knows what he’s doing, and Feyre runs.

When the eyes of Amarantha, those damning, blood red eyes, so different yet so similar to his russet one, he knows he is going to pay for this.

Once Feyre is taken away, once Rhysand is sent back to her chambers for whatever tortures Amarantha will concoct for Rhysand for betting against her, Lucien is dragged to the dungeon.

They paint the walls in his blood and his screams are the only thing heard for the rest of the week.

-

Lucien is healed and they bring him to Tamlin. Tamlin, who he had sworn his loyalty to. Tamlin, who had bothered, who had begged Amarantha for him to be spared.

Amarantha had Tamlin deliver 20 lashes.

Lucien had not cried out for any. 20 had become 30, then 40, until his back was a mangled mess and it was all he could do to not keel over and scream.

But Lucien had held Amarantha’s damning gaze and let Tamlin whip his back into bloody shreds.

Amarantha had looked at him with cruelty shining, rage in her eyes, but a small grain of respect for his loyalty.

Lucien let the Attor rub salt into his wounds before dragging him out and dumping him into another cell again.

The next time he woke up, he was slowly healing and was in an actual room with a small mattress instead of a dungeon cell.

Lucien did not complain.

-

When Lucien beheld Feyre, dressed in such a scandalous dress, marked and claimed by Rhysand-

He glanced at Tamlin, who looked utterly stoned and emotionless.

Wrong. It felt wrong, to see Rhysand touching her and feeling her out. It felt wrong to smell Rhysand so near her, yet it felt so right.

Feyre, Lucien decides, was going to be the death of him.

-

“Shit,” Lucien huffs as he opens the door to check on Feyre,” It’s freezing in here.”

The usual banter, with a hint of panic and desperation.

Lucien wanted to cuff Feyre for making that stupid bargain, but grudgingly admitted that it increased her chances of survival by a small amount, even if the repercussions were greater.

Feyre made his job very very difficult, but it made his life interesting.

“I should go. The rotation’s about to shift,” he says instead.

“I’m sorry—that she still punished you for helping me during my task. I heard—” 

Lucien stiffens.

“I heard what she made Tamlin do to you.”

Lucien shrugs. It was his duty, his honour, his job and life to serve and protect Tamlin and his allies.

“Thank you. For helping me, I mean.”

“It’s why I couldn’t come sooner,” Lucien softly says. His back aches at the thought, but he ignores it.

“She used her—used our powers to keep my back from healing. I haven’t been able to move until today.”

Naive Feyre. Dear Feyre. Innocent, optimistic Feyre.

“He’s playing a dangerous game, though,” Lucien said, slipping out the door. “We all are.”


	8. Magic abound, love will heal your wounds

Lucien had always been playing games since he was a child.

He would run around the manor, hid in the bushes, duck around corridors avoiding servants as he pretended a phantom wind was chasing him.

When he was older, he played the games of politics. Of cunning smiles, of lies hidden in syrup, of razor-sharp comments disguised as sweet charm.

And now, he was playing again. He was but a pawn, just like Feyre. He had his job, protect Feyre, do not let her die, do not fail Tamlin and his wishes.

He had nothing left except his loyalties and Feyre’s brightness that had dimmed significantly with Amarantha.

It had not stopped him from slipping away to see her.

And so, as Lucien lay chained to the center of the floor on the other side of the chamber, as his remaining russet eye so wide that it was surrounded with white, as the metal one spun as if set wild, as yet again he was to be Amarantha’s toy to torment, he did not protest much.

Spikes. Lucien, son of Beron and Hestia, made with fire in his blood and soul, would die because of spikes and fire.

Some small surviving part, the survivor in him, howls, and he wrenches at his chains.

What was the test, he had to see, had to bring Feyre through this-

Writing. Cauldron damn them all.

He could not, would not die before he knew he had served his purpose.

“Answer it!” Lucien shouts.

Feyre looked so small, so scared.

Do not pray for me, Feyre, pray for yourself and those who will live to see Amarantha reign supreme, Lucien thinks as he desperately claws at his restraints.

“Feyre,” Lucien breathes out as the spikes come closer. He would fail, he would die, he would fail and leave them and be remembered as a traitor and coward and a pathetic child-

“Just pick one!” Lucien hoarsely yells as he pushes all his power into breaking the chains.

(Hide that power, Little Lucien)

His magic flares and struggles.

“Feyre, please!”

Begging already, Lucien? You were always the weakest, the most tainted filth.

Feyre pulls.

The spikes stop inches away.

“Oh gods, Mother guide us, Maiden lead us, Crone defend us, Cauldron save us,” Lucien murmurs as he sinks to the floor.

They nearly died. Again.

His luck was the absolute worst.

-

Lucien doesn’t see the light for the next few hours? Days? Weeks?

-

Lucien is dragged out again to witness the last trial.

To see Feyre be crushed. Amarantha would not allow it.

Feyre looked so determined, so loving. As Lucien watched Feyre gaze into Tamlin’s eyes, so like him and Jesminda, he felt so much sorrow for the girl.

She was just a girl. She shouldn’t even be here playing their immortal game of thrones.

A human girl, willing to risk everything for her fae lover, like Amarantha had said.

And when Feyre had whispered “I love you” to Tamlin, when she had driven that arrow right into him-

Rhysand had been grinning from ear to ear. Lucien wonders if he knew, if he too had dropped hints.

For someone spreading his legs for Amarantha, he sure was invested in Feyre’s survival.

The bargain, the bond, the mercy, the flashes of emotions.

Who was he? What was he doing?

Why save her?  
And Amarantha struck.

No.

“Feyre!” Rhysand roars.

Gods, Feyre.

Lucien made to stand up.

Another faerie yanked him down but he growls.

And Rhysand struck.

Lucien could do nothing but watch, watch as Rhysand slams back into the wall. Could do nothing but stare in horror, for figuring it out too late, for connecting the dots too late.

Some part of him screamed for Rhysand to get up. For Feyre to run.

“Stop, please,” Feyre whispers.

He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t feel, what was happening-

Tamlin begs. In all his life, Lucien had never seen Tamlin beg like this. Not even for his life, where Tamlin had merely kneeled and beseeched her.

What was Lucien worth to Feyre in the eyes of Tamlin, who would have been her mate if she were fae?

Lucien gets up slowly.

“Love,” Feyre chokes out.

Lucien, midway down the stairs to where Amarantha stood, poised to kill Feyre, froze.

His magic was swirling, his magic was growing, the fire and destruction in him burning.

“The answer to the riddle is love.”

And Lucien knew, knew that this human girl, child soldier, Cauldron blessed human, had saved them all.

Lucien shakily removes his mask.

He could do nothing but stare as he let the mask drop from his fingers.

She had done it, she had won.

He had succeeded and served his Lord and probably soon to be Lady.

Lucien Vanserra smiles for the first time in centuries as he meets Feyre’s gaze over Amarantha for a second.

-

And then the fight.

Bloody, brutal, glorious, righteous.

“Tam!” Lucien yells over the din and grabs a sword before throwing it to him.

He was Tamlin’s knight, he was Tamlin’s right hand, he would serve and help him-

And it was done.

A small, shaky bond between Feyre and him when Tamlin had made him swear to protect her lurched.

“No,” Lucien breathes and Tamlin, snapped out of a daze, rushes to Feyre.

Oh Feyre.

Lucien feels himself heading for Feyre, bond dragging him to her, begging him to save her.

He stands by her uselessly, watches as Tamlin’s face becomes one of guilt and desperation, as Feyre’s blood stains the stones.

He feels a familiar presence behind him.

His father had come.

Lucien nearly turns to him, almost snarls-

Beron opens his fingers. A glittering spark falls and vanishes as it touches Feyre.

The Rite of Rebirth.

One of the rituals his tutors had made him study, had made him understand and remember.

Beron, his father, was parting with a pro of his essence, to save a mortal, a “lesser”.

The world, Lucien decides as he watches the High Lords one by one offer Feyre their gratitude, has truly gone to the dogs.

“I love you,” Feyre says and slumps against Tamlin.

Lucien feels the bond, tentatively.

And across the other end, was a small, tiny soul, but it flared alive when Lucien tugged.

Lucien numbly leans on his sword and almost cried.


	9. and for we have always hid in the shadows lying in wait

Lucien watches as Tamlin carries Feyre away, as the fae rejoice. His eyes narrow down to a certain High Lord watching, just like him, from the sidelines.

Lucien, to test his powers, winnows right beside him.

Rhysand, to his credit, only flinches slightly. It showed how exhausted he was.

“I would like to thank you,” Lucien begins.

“It was my pleasure, my fox,” Rhysand replies, back to his usual self, mask tightening around his face.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner, I should have, I suppose.” Lucien shrugs, un-lord like.

“We all had our parts to play, Lucien,” Rhysand murmurs, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the wall he was leaning on.

“Have a wonderful time corralling little minions back at Night Court again. Once you sleep and have a bath though, you look like the Suriel but drunk,” Lucien sasses, lightening the mood.

“Shut up fox flame, you don’t look any better,” Rhysand banters back, but there’s a seriousness to his eyes as he opens them.

“I’m a delight, excuse you,” Lucien haughtily sniffs, perfect mimicry of Eris.

Rhysand smiles.

It’s breathtaking, its horrendously bright, its so fucking Rhysand that it even had a curl of arrogance to it.

“You’ll have to leave soon, little fox. And we shall meet again someday, I hope. Your power will only grow from here, and I cannot wait to taste it,” Rhysand purrs and Lucien, never one to be cowed, smirks back.

“You’ll kneel for it,” Lucien says, letting a hint of fire curl around Rhysand and stroke his jaw before Lucien turns around and leaves for Tamlin.

He feels more than hears Rhysand’s chuckle.


End file.
